


the thinner the air becomes (the more we feel)

by everythingremainsconnected



Series: It takes three spies... [1]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: F/M, Feelings, M/M, Multi, OT3, Pretend mission, Sappy Spies, dumbasses in love, feelings everywhere, inexperienced illya, perfect gifts, probably very unrealistic cold war travel times
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-15
Updated: 2019-08-15
Packaged: 2020-09-01 09:10:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20255674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/everythingremainsconnected/pseuds/everythingremainsconnected
Summary: Illya takes a risk to reunite Gaby with something precious and get Solo a consolation prize, but in the end they all get more than they bargained for...





	the thinner the air becomes (the more we feel)

Waking up coughing was never a good sign.

Especially when Illya didn’t remember falling asleep. 

Something shattered nearby and adrenaline pumped through him faster than poison. His fingertips sizzled when he flexed, tingled when he moved, but remaining still wasn’t an option. Not if he wanted _life_ to remain a viable option. 

His body moved traitorously slow despite the fire in his veins. Hands took an eternity to slide under his shoulders, and screamed in protest to push his heavy body upward. Knees wobbled as he shifted to kneel. Something heavy and flat moved inside his jacket and a hand flew to touch it, to pat it safely, remember why he was here in the first place. 

Never mind that his legs had quit cooperating for the moment. The package was safe. It was foolish - beyond foolish - to think there was a moment to relax. Even a moment to pause and check his mission hadn’t failed was dangerous but he couldn’t stop himself. He had to be sure. 

A train rumbled by, stirring dust from the ceiling that choked him and he stifled more coughing. Grit and dirt fell into his eyes and he wiped them, using the tired motion to mask his true intent: checking the perimeters. Staying alive very much depended on staying undetected, something Illya was certain he had managed so far, the ruined construction around him notwithstanding. He stayed on his knees as the world - and the building’s remains - settled around him. Feigning injury may draw out any watchers that lay in wait. Illya had long ago learned to leverage the dangerous optimism of enemies hoping for any possible advantage against his size. 

The explosion wasn’t his doing, and wasn’t targeting him either, he was sure. If he’d been the target, he would not have woken up. Slowing his breathing and suppressing more coughing from his irritated lungs, Illya strained to hear a repeat of the noise that had stirred him to wakefulness. So far, nothing. Just innocent crumbling echoes. Not even any sirens or polizei… that kind of silence could mean Stasi. Illya braced himself for brutality. Pitting him against foot soldiers of the Stasi was like shooting a canon at sparrows. Those poor sparrows would follow their orders and Illya would follow his, even though it wasn’t as simple as that anymore. 

The world was grey and dull in its dusty shades, with all the shadows turned flat. Better than the too-bright light of burning… The chop shop would almost certainly catch alight after such an explosion. He had blown up enough targets, been victim of enough, to know the expected order of events. Time was precious. 

Illya looked for his hat and spied it miraculously close by. Reaching made something in his shoulder scream alarmingly and he logged the information away; his right arm wasn’t about to deliver an easy killing blow any time soon. He smoothed his hair out of habit and winced at the debris that fell onto his shoulders. The dust that was surely left would dull his hair better than the cap, but the grime would give him away. Being a six foot five Russian in East Berlin made subterfuge difficult. Physical evidence of any crime would make it impossible. 

Unfolding to a slow stand, Illya turned. The package in his jacket rested against his skin like a delicate hand might, moving with his body. He was _not_ thinking of any specific hand whose delicacy was refined by fine-tuning engines. A top-trained KGB agent would not fixate so unnecessarily on something so ridiculous. Not at all. 

A pile of rubble shifted. Glass shattered. Illya started toward the noise like a scenthound and pulled his gun in one smooth motion. No person appeared but Illya had no intention of waiting. Whoever wanted to destroy Gaby’s garage was shit at building bombs. Lucky for Illya - he checked his watch - ten minutes ago, probably bad luck for Illya in five. Every time he looked at his watch, Illya remembered the lightning strike in his heart when Solo had given it back. It was the daily (hourly, secondly) reminder of his life _after_: After East Berlin, after the Vinciguerras, after Rudi, after Rome. 

_There_. The scrape of a boot on stone. 

If he wanted _this_ mission to have an after, he had to move. 

The terrain of a collapsing building was easier to navigate than every single training exercise he had endured. After exactly two steps the icy realisation trickled through Illya; the building was collapsing. The rumble of destruction quickly swallowed the sounds of boots across cement and Illya scowled, picking up the pace. He knew better than to hope that whoever chased him would meet an unfortunate end in a workplace incident. Illya ran and noted each injury as he moved: right shoulder, definitely not fully functioning; ears, ringing; back, stinging across the shoulders, probably cut in the explosion; knees, usual twinge, evening out as he picked up speed. 

Shouts echoed behind him. Illya didn’t look back as he cleared what remained of the garage door and hit greasy asphalt at speed. Nondescript dark cars parked at too-perfect intervals along the street were a bad sign but not unexpected. Illya rounded the corner as the first engine roared to life and very nearly grinned when the tyres popped. Some hours ago he had carefully placed shards of glass and nails along the entire street, deliberately dulled to blend with the dark asphalt. More cars started, tried to screech away, and were halted with yet more popping tyres. Though he was entirely confident he could have fought his way through at least half of the footsoldiers in East Berlin, it wasn’t the smartest move to make without backup… or official UNCLE approval to be there in the first place. 

By the time they started to run after him, Illya was a distant ghost. Sirens sounded and he avoided their likely trajectory, darting down alleyways too narrow for big polizei cars. One such alley held the next stage of his mission: a clean jacket and hat, a small suitcase, and a much-folded map of East Berlin. Illya adopted his disguise as a lonely man from the country looking for his sister and strolled out of the alley. 

Illya’s real luggage was miles away in an MI6 safehouse. He knew four different ways to get there and assessed that three of those routes were still viable after his escape from the garage. Once he reached the safehouse, there would be three options for extraction. Playing the part of a lost man in a strange city, Illya meandered through dark streets, squinting at street signs and taking care not to double back. 

The package inside his jacket was a comfort against his chest. He didn’t let himself wonder what a hand might feel like in its place. 

The safehouse was whole and sound, masquerading as a boarding house off a busy street. Illya played his role to the last, looking between the signage in the window and the paper in his hand, finding inner strength his cover-story-self would have needed. The window sign advertised a single room: the code for all-clear. He did not relax as he crossed the threshold, nor when he met the extraction agent. Illya quashed his relief when he picked up the real suitcase, a battered thing identical to that belonging to his cover, and prepared to be extracted from East Berlin. 

In the dawn of a new day and with new papers and cover - security for a minor Italian politician - Illya was extracted. He and his employer boarded a train for Hamburg where a complicated shell game would take place, with Illya the lucky ball and the Italian politician, a traveling circus and a group of priests being the hiding shells. Illya deliberately did not stare out the train windows as city stones and spires faded into cottages and farmland. He was not sentimental about such things. These were just places where people lived and worked and tried not to die. 

Illya was not thinking of the countryside of his childhood, of the stark lines of trees against cold skies, the pattern of his neighbours rooftops out of the kitchen window. Watching city melt into countryside and back again did not remind him of leaving home. It did not set his teeth on edge to be between mission and safety, the promise of survival hovering just out of reach. He certainly did not tap at his chest to feel the package that rested inside his jacket. 

If Gaby and Solo could see him now… Illya was just as glad that they could not. Gaby would be watching him, most likely glaring, like she was trying to solve a particularly complicated engine problem. She would trade all the barbs with Solo and Illya would start to wonder what it would be like if she looked at him the way she looked at the handsome American… Who would fire quips aimed squarely at Illya’s softness, his foolishness; things would probably be acerbic, uncomfortably so for anyone unfortunate enough to hear. Before - before Rome, before Rudi - it would have wilted his ears. Illya was slowly reaching the conclusion that he would listen to all the insulting babbling Solo could possibly manage just for the comfort of having him near. It would only solve half the problem, Gaby’s quick wit resolving the rest. He folded that worrying thought into a very small thing indeed and tucked it as far away as he could. 

*

Any softness Illya may or may not have hidden from himself regarding one painful American was definitely sharpened in Hamburg. As the agent responsible for organising the extraction, Solo had made sure to cast Illya as the Soviet Strongman in a travelling circus. 

There was a costume. It was a size too small. 

Solo’s coded note demanded pictures. 

*

London was just another city, or so Illya tried to tell himself. It wasn’t exactly the debauched nightmare of communist bedtime stories, but parts of it were certainly close. Generally those were the parts Solo knew best. That softness in Illya’s heart eased the harsh line between what he _knew_, before, and what he was trying to understand now. He understood that Gaby’s shoulders were never so tense as when he’d first seen her in East Berlin. He understood that she loved dancing and was painfully aware of his own limitations in that area. He understood that cooking was important to Solo but could not figure out the ‘why’ behind it, not that he wasn’t trying. 

An undercover agent drove Illya home, the fake taxicab weaving through the London streets like a natural. Illya’s flat - and Gaby’s, and Solo’s - occupied the top of two separate buildings. The three tiny flats had been secretly renovated into a shared space and thoroughly outfitted with every spy gadget known to the industry, and a few unknown gadgets just for good measure. Waverley had said lots of British things in his British way about teamwork and bonding - Illya hadn’t heard most of it over the rushing of red blood in his ears that signalled an oncoming fit of rage - but then Gaby had said it sounded fine, and she’d smiled when she said it, and Illya didn’t want to ruin it. 

And then, there they were. The three of them, sharing a home. It was entirely secret, of course, he and Solo appearing to be immediate neighbours in one building and Gaby more distantly neighbourly in the building next door. 

Illya climbed out of the taxicab and made a show of paying the driver before grabbing his new suitcase and heading for the building. The ground floor was a haberdashery and Illya nodded to the shopgirl as he unlocked the door to the stairs. He walked slowly, stifling the urge to take the old wooden steps two at a time, desperate to close the space between them after so long alone. 

Which of them, he didn’t know, he couldn’t tell, it didn’t matter because he was at their front door and the key slid into the lock on the first try and he was through and over the threshold and - he could hear soft music. Illya closed the door behind him and cursed the fake wall that blocked his view to the space, knowing full well the others would have a perfect view of him before he’d set eyes on them at all, courtesy of angled mirrors and complicated sensors. He rounded the obstacle in half a step to see Gaby swaying to the record playing, a martini glass in her hand and a knowing smile on her face. 

“Illya!” She saluted him with her glass as she danced her way to him. Illya never failed to smile at her dancing. His body relaxed of its own volition and he set the suitcase down, ready to settle into his home. Their home. 

“Peril!” Solo emerged from the kitchen with an apron over his crisp suit shirt and slacks, carrying a tray of ridiculously tiny finger foods. He presented the tray to Illya with a grin. “Welcome home.” 

“What, no drink?” Illya deadpanned. 

“What, no souvenirs?” Solo shot back. He turned on his heel but couldn’t escape fast enough; Illya’s long arm snagged a tiny something from the tray. Solo sighed dramatically and went back to the kitchen. 

“I did not say I was not hungry.” Illya ate the small unidentifiable morsel, hoping no one saw the slight wince thanks to his healing arm. 

“What was that?” Gaby asked quickly. 

Solo reappeared in the doorframe, immediately suspicious. “What did he do?” 

Gaby’s eyes narrowed. She reached up to poke Illya’s right shoulder and watched him wince properly. “That!” she repeated. “Waverley didn’t mention any injuries. What happened? Are you alright? Here.” Gaby gave Illya her glass, ignoring his protests as she flexed her hands. “Solo, get the scissors, we’re going to have to cut the shirt off to get a decent look.” 

“I’m fine. Promise.” Illya gave the glass back. “There was small explosion.” Gaby and Solo were twin fountains of indignant arguing, the pair of them standing shoulder to shoulder as they sputtered. “I escaped, and am fine,” Illya protested over the top of their worry, “the building did not properly collapse until after I was gone.” The indignance turned into shouting. Illya sighed, simultaneously warmed and confused by the attention. 

Gaby let loose a few choice words in German and stalked to the little drinks trolley by the record player. She swapped her martini glass for a heavy tumbler and splashed vodka into it while cursing the foolishness of stubborn men. German was such a wonderful language to be annoyed in and Illya listened to her with a smile. The crass American counterpoint was not so wonderful but he knew, now, that to have one without the other - or none at all - was worse. 

With a full glass and her irritation spent, Gaby leaned on the edge of the sofa, staring at Illya. He still stood by the entryway’s fake wall, enduring the mild berating with suspicious patience. “Did you manage to sustain a head injury?” 

“Jesus, Peril, did you?” Solo reached up to grip Illya’s chin, turning his head side to side and tracking the movement of his eyes. “Is that why you’re so quiet? Concussion? By now you should have insulted my hair and my culture at least twice each before breaking a piece of furniture. I even left this ugly little table within convenient arm’s reach for you to destroy. Is it drugs? Are you bugged?” 

“That table is classic craftsmanship and charming.” Illya tried to shake his head, something that proved difficult when strong, stubborn hands gripped his chin. He didn’t want to move away but commanding language - any of them - was difficult with Solo and Gaby glaring at him. “There is no serious injury. I am fine. Mission is fine but…” 

“Oh no. Don’t ‘but’. This is not the kind of profession to ever say ‘but’ like this!” Gaby strode toward Illya in such a hurry she almost spilled her drink. 

“It was not a mission.” 

Solo blinked slowly. He released Illya’s chin. “I’m sorry. I could have sworn I just heard you say it was not a mission. You were gone for _weeks_-” 

“-barely eleven days-” 

“-you were gone for _weeks_,” Solo repeated, “and Waverley was monitoring you, and I helped plan your extraction options, and we couldn’t contact you _at all_ in case we blew your cover. And it wasn’t for a mission?” 

Illya nodded. “It was _a_ mission, just not the official mission. Not the kind of mission that gets written down.” 

“Covert ops? That’s even worse!” 

“No, no, please, let me explain.” 

“I would love to hear it!” Solo fixed a horribly fake grin to his face. “Tell us, Peril, was it in the bowels of Mother Russia? Did they threaten to kill you if you ever left again? Or did they just try to kill you for the fraternization with the enemy that you’ve already done!” 

“It was for this!” Illya pulled the package from his jacket, the same place it had been since he recovered it in East Berlin. He held it out for Gaby. “It was for this. For you.” 

“What are you talking about?” Gaby demanded. 

Illya carefully maintained his grip on the little thing in his hands as his heartbeat roared in his ears. “I did not know what to say when I planned this, so I said nothing. I let you - I let both of you - think this was official. Because I did not know how to explain.” 

Solo had shed his sarcasm as Illya spoke. “Explain what?” 

“Please, open it,” Illya almost begged. 

Gaby glared before gulping down her drink and giving Solo her empty glass. Her eyes never left Illya. Slowly she took the package from his hands and once she had its full weight in her fingers, her eyes widened. Her fingertips pressed its edges. 

Caught as he was in the moment, Illya didn’t see the punch coming. Gaby’s fist hit his sore shoulder with practiced force. His diaphragm clenched as white-hot stars radiated out from his shoulder. If only he could breathe, he’d tell her how he proud he was of her aim. 

“What the hell is going on?” Solo demanded. A shrill timer went off in the kitchen and he cursed. “No accidental murder until I get dinner out of the oven!” He fled the room. “And no deliberate murder either!” 

“You are a hundred kinds of idiot, you know that?” Gaby admonished him. She didn’t open the wrapping. “You could have been killed.” 

Solo strode back into the room with an inelegant snort. “It’s just as well he survived so _we_ can kill him for being such a damn fool. What on Earth was so important that it was worth going behind the Curtain for, Peril? Is this just some- some kind of game for you? They could have killed you.” 

“Open it,” Illya said softly. “I did not go all this way for you to admire envelopes.” 

Slowly, carefully, Gaby picked apart the paper. She had known what it was the second she held it, knew its weight in her hand, its shape, better than anything. She had also known it was impossible. As the paper finally fell away her heart stuttered. 

The little circle frame held a black and white photo of a girl and her father. 

“Cowboy told me about this,” Illya said softly, “about things you left behind that night. I know… what it is like to lose memories. They are not just _things_ when they are all we have left.” He rubbed at the wristband of his father’s watch. “I had to know if there was something to be done.” 

“It was never going to be worth your life!” Gaby could barely look at him. “How do you think it would felt for me - for us - to know you _died_ for a stupid photo!” 

“There was no danger of it!” Illya snapped. “You think so little of me that simple recon mission was going to be a problem? I was practicing how to kill when you were playing with dolls.” 

Solo scoffed. “All it takes is one lucky shot.” 

“Relying on luck is the game of fools! I planned every step of this mission to evade detection. I had the best UNCLE has to offer to ensure my safe extraction. I have been in more danger in a kitchen with you, Cowboy,” Illya glared at Solo, “than in East Berlin.” 

“There it is. So no head injury, then.” 

“Why?” Gaby demanded. “Why do such a stupid, dangerous thing?” 

“Why, indeed?” Solo challenged quietly. 

Illya stared. Once again he was out of words but this time there was no excuse. “Because I could not live with myself if I did not try. Because…” he looked at his father’s watch and the corner of his lip attempted to curl upwards. “Because whenever I see this, I remember my father. Our home. A better time,” Illya smiled at his own joke, “and a better me. Before I became this.” The smile died. “And now, after Rome, I see this and… and I see that maybe I am not still alone. That someone is capable of kindness, for kindness’ sake. And I wanted you to know this. I wanted to share this with you.” 

“I didn’t know you could string so many words together all at once,” Solo tried to quip but the sting wasn’t there. 

“I’ll _string_ your apron ties around your neck, Cowboy,” Illya returned tepidly. 

Gaby sighed. “I will kill both of you and make it look like an accident.” She stared down at the photo in her hands. “Where did you find this?” 

“Your garage,” Illya began, “it was closed up. Someone had searched it, trashed it, but no real damage. Until the bomb.” Gaby and Solo were unanimously outraged and shouted over the top of one another again until Illya held up his hands. “It was only small bomb! And it was badly placed.” 

Solo scowled. “I could swear you’re more irritated by the lack of professionalism than being _blown up_.” 

“There is no excuse for sloppy work.” 

“This calls for celebration. I think.” Gaby paused. “Actually, I’m not sure. We need cocktails.” Gaby went to the kitchen, still clutching the photo. 

Solo invited himself right into Illya’s space and met his eyes. “It wasn’t for the sake of it.” 

“What?” 

“I didn’t get your father’s watch back just _because_.” Solo broke away just as suddenly as he’d approached, pacing in their living room. “It was the right thing to do.” 

Illya’s heart stung to think that it had meant so little to Solo when it had meant so much more to him. “Since when does the right thing occur to you, Cowboy?” 

“When it’s _you_, damnit,” Solo muttered. 

Gaby returned with a cut lemon in her hands. “When what is him?” 

“Nothing. It doesn’t matter.” 

“Why do you always do that?” 

“Do what?” 

“Pretend like it’s nothing.” 

“Because it is,” Solo said simply. “I’m just a spectator at this grand display.” There was no bitterness in him, just a surprising honesty that disarmed the room faster than an electromagnetic pulse. 

“What display?” Gaby asked. 

“This.” Solo gestured between Illya and Gaby. “Whatever this is - there isn’t room for me. And that’s ok. But if you’ll excuse me, I have no desire to torture myself further.” 

“Don’t go,” Illya said before he remembered to doubt himself. 

Solo shook his head. “Don’t. I won’t make you choose. I wouldn’t choose me. _You_ shouldn’t.” 

Gaby threw half a lemon at him and got him square in his perfect jaw. He stared. “Idiots, both of you! As if I’m about to stand in the way of whatever happiness you clearly see in each other. Just put a tie on whoever’s bedroom door and I’ll see you tomorrow.” 

“But,” Illya said slowly, “but you are clearly in love with him. And he is with you.” He looked between Solo and Gaby, considering their familiarity and comfort and, he was sure, the intimacy he had always seen between them in their home. “I am the spectator. The friend. I did not mean to cause trouble with you, I just… I wanted to make you as happy as he made me. You deserve this.” 

“I made you happy?” Solo interjected, confused and quiet. 

“Napoleon only has eyes for _you_, Illya,” Gaby declared. She held her chin bravely high, challenging the pair of them. 

“Gaby, did you not just hear him? He went behind the damn Curtain for you! He risked his stupid life to bring you something precious. Besides, the two of you being in love means I don’t have to try and choose, so you’re actually doing me a favour.” 

Illya’s ears roared and prompted his mouth to move before his brain could interfere. “I brought you something too, Cowboy.” 

Solo froze. “What?” 

“In the case. For you.” 

Solo didn’t move, not even when Gaby threw the second lemon half at him. She rolled her eyes, opened the suitcase and immediately began ruining Illya’s carefully folded clothes. Her questing fingers found the secret compartment easily and popped it open. Pulling out the slender, beautifully made bottle, she turned it over in her hands. 

“Is that…” Solo’s eyes were wide. 

“I can’t read Italian,” Gaby sighed. She threw the bottle at Solo and saw the panic flash across his face as he reached for it. He caught it easily. 

“Olive oil.” Illya turned the bottle in Solo’s hands so he could read the label. Solo was trembling. “The best my contact could find. Is it… is it acceptable?” 

Solo gaped. He looked like a surprised puppy. “Acceptable? This is liquid gold! How did you?” 

“See, Napoleon? I told you,” Gaby said. 

“_I am telling you!_” Illya snapped. He looked between the two of them, the truth burning his heart from the inside out. He said to Solo, “You could not choose? What makes you think I can? I used to know how this world worked. I knew my home, my place in it, my duties. I used to think I was contented with this. But then I met you. Both of you!” Illya began to pace, tapping his fingertips against his thighs. “I met you and nothing makes sense anymore. The sound of your voice is like glass in my ears-” 

“Don’t flatter me, whatever you do,” Solo interrupted. 

“But the quiet when you are not there? Misery.” Illya shook his head and looked at Gaby. “You make no sense to me. None. You dance with me and then you want to fight with me. You are my friend but… but try to kiss me.” 

“I think you will find that it is _you_ who tries to kiss _me_.” 

“You try to kiss me and then look at Cowboy like he is made of stars. Which he is, I think. Certainly a lot of hot gas.” Illya’s face did not betray the joke he tried to make. “To see you happy together, I thought, then it won’t hurt when you leave. But it already hurts when you are gone.” 

Solo busied himself with the drinks trolley, arranging the olive oil amongst the liquor. He cleared his throat and when he spoke, he couldn’t look at either of them. “What, exactly, are you trying to say?” 

“Illya?” Gaby approached slowly. She watched his fingers tap rapid-fire against his thigh and reached for his hand. He squeezed her fingers tightly. 

“I never thought about how to… how to love someone,” Illya said through clenched teeth. “I put all of that away - buried it - after my father. I could not lose someone again. I would not survive if I knew that pain again but it did not matter what I tried to hide or tell myself. It happened anyway. Then I thought the secret would hurt less but… It did not matter if you knew about it or not.” 

“Knew about what?” Gaby asked. 

Solo took a step closer, close enough that Illya could reach for him if he chose to. “Are you trying to say that you have _feelings_ in that red heart of yours, Peril?” 

Illya couldn’t think, couldn’t speak. His heartbeat thundered in his ears and he froze. For the first time in his adult life Illya couldn’t will himself to do anything more than breathe and hopefully not scream. 

“Could you be nice to him, for once?” Gaby asked sharply. “I know you’ve got your own feelings for him-” 

“And you-” 

“But that’s no excuse to be such a jackass- what?” 

“I didn’t want to choose,” Solo said. He looked from Gaby’s suspicion to Illya’s panic. “It was easier to let you two be because then I wouldn’t have to try and pick just one when I… I have more than feelings for more than one person. And it saved me from knowing that no matter who I wanted, they would never want me back.” 

“You’re lucky I’m out of lemons.” 

“Excuse me?” 

Gaby punched Solo’s shoulder. “Of course I want you! Somehow! You ridiculous handsome jackass! And you would have to be _very_ bad at reading people to miss just how badly Illya wants you, which would be highly embarrassing for you, a trained spy, who is supposed to be good at this.” 

“I think you will find I have been very understated,” Illya protested, finally remembering how to speak. 

“Understated? Are you being serious?” Gaby laughed. “Right before you left on your ‘not-mission’, you told Napoleon that his pancakes were good.” 

“So?” 

“_So_, you went bright red and your accent got _very thick_ and you left the room immediately. You may as well have signed a love letter with eu de parfum and a kiss.” 

Illya went bright red once again. “So what about when he told you your hair looked nice right before that dinner with the French smuggler? You could barely speak decent French and we had spent all week practicing.” 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about-” 

“Oh, you want to talk about that week?” Solo interrupted. “Do either of you have _any idea_ how torturous it is to listen to beautiful people practicing such a beautiful language for hours at a time?” 

“And you went and ruined all our hard work with your compliment,” Illya shot back. 

“It was _your_ fault, Peril! You had to help Gaby with another garter belt tracker - don’t think I haven’t noticed just how many more of those seem to be required these days - and you _know_ she can’t concentrate in that scenario. Hell, I certainly can’t.” 

“It was both of you!” Gaby shouted. She let go of Illya’s hand and stepped back from them. “Alright? It was both of you. It is always both of you. You drive me mad and you are so infuriating and _smug_ and you’re both awful at admitting you were ever wrong.” 

“Because _you’re_ always right,” Illya said sarcastically. 

“As a matter of fact, I am. I have seen right through you,” she glared at each of them in turn, “and I’m right about this ending in heartbreak for me. I won’t do it. I won’t risk your happiness, and the team, just because I… never mind.” 

“Now hold on,” Solo said, stepping between Gaby and Illya, desperate to close the distance before it all flew apart. “Let me see if I can get this right: you,” he pointed at Illya, “have feelings for her. _And_ me.” Solo’s heart pounded. He was adrift, horribly and awfully alone for long seconds, until Illya nodded. Solo couldn’t stop the grin that spread across his face. “And _you_, liebling, have a delicious mix of irritation and adoration for him, _and_ me.” 

“Adoration might be a bit far,” Gaby tried to snap but her eyes gave her away; they were dangerously warm as she beheld the two big idiots before her. 

“And it’s well established at this point that I am tragically in love with both of you, and entirely convinced I don’t deserve either one of you.” Solo could barely breathe. 

“I used up all my luck escaping Berlin,” Gaby said softly. “There is no way I could be so lucky to have… what you seem to be implying is possible.” 

“Luck has nothing to do with it,” Illya said. “His hard work and your quick mind got you out.” 

Gaby sighed. “You know what I mean. Good things - _amazing_, wonderful things - don’t happen to me. This is impossible.” 

“Why?” Illya asked. He was looking at her in that soft way of his, sharing the gaze with Solo. “If this is what we all want…” he waited for Solo to nod, “...why not?” 

“Why not steal all the happiness we can?” Solo put on his best sly grin, one he hoped would fluster the hell out of his loves. 

Illya rolled his eyes and his face went pink. “Spoken like a true thief.” 

“Spoken like a true American,” Gaby corrected. She stepped closer to them, testing the waters. 

“Ouch. See, now why else would I set myself up for a lifetime of mockery, if not for some very strong feelings indeed?” 

“I think,” Gaby said slowly, “that you like to play games to keep people at arm’s length. His arms might be _very_ long,” she deliberately looked lower than Illya’s hands for a moment before reaching out to hold and lift his arm to demonstrate. “My arms are not. You cannot keep us away if you want to invite us in. You have to mean this.” 

Solo’s neck flushed red as he caught Gaby’s double entendre. He swallowed quickly. “Would you allow me the occasional clever riposte to keep my wits about me?” 

“Only if it’s _really_ clever. I mean, devastatingly clever.” 

“So, no, then,” Illya said drily. 

“You don’t get a vote,” Solo sniffed, “you wouldn’t know clever if it punched you in the jaw.” 

“You certainly didn’t see it coming, did you?” Gaby said. “I heard all about the first time you officially ‘met’.” 

Solo feigned indignation. “What lies have you been telling about me?” 

“I am honest, dependable man. I never lie. Not even to beautiful women about handsome men.” Illya watched, delighted, as Gaby and Solo reacted to his compliment. Such a simple thing, and he had said many simple, kind and honest things to them over the time they’d known each other, but now he could see his words affecting them. Gaby tried to play it cool but there was no mistaking her pleased smile. Solo was only slightly better at ‘aloof’ but Illya saw his neck stay red, and some of that perpetual sharp edge was fading. 

“Honesty only, ok? Both of you have to promise,” Gaby said seriously. “Promise me, and each other. This won’t work if we’re not honest.” 

Illya nodded immediately; he’d seen what it cost her to ask. Solo nodded too, more thoughtful but just as ready. 

“Good. I’ll start.” Gaby closed the distance between her and Illya. She gripped his jacket lapels to bring his face to hers and kissed him. 

Illya sank immediately to meet Gaby, wrapping long arms around her to hold her close. She was small and warm and _determined_, her mouth enticing trembling shocks from Illya’s entire body. He shuddered against her and a low moan escaped him. As quickly as he’d given in to her Illya pulled away, his cheeks hot. He stepped back and hated himself for the stricken look on Gaby’s face. 

“What’s wrong?” Gaby asked quickly. “Is it not… not what you want?” 

“That’s not the problem, is it, Peril?” Solo’s voice was uncharacteristically gentle. “Is it so hard to let yourself _want_ something?” 

Illya rubbed his face briskly. “I am alone in this.” 

“There’s literally two other people involved. I hope,” Solo said. Gaby shoved his arm. 

“No, in - in _this_.” Illya gestured to himself. “Cowboy is right. I have not let myself _want_, much less _have_.” He kept his eyes down, the shame burning through him. “I don’t know how… what is expected… what if I do something wrong and you…” 

Gaby’s eyes widened. She punched Solo’s shoulder again. “If you make fun of him I will destroy you.” 

Illya looked up to see Gaby threatening Solo. For _him_. He stared, afraid. 

“I would never make fun of him,” Solo protested. 

“You do! All the time!” Gaby reminded him. 

Solo held up his hands in surrender. “Ok, yes, technically true, but I would never- not about this.” He met Illya’s gaze and didn’t flinch. “I promise. Everything else about you is fair game - _very_ fair,” Solo flirted, “but this situation is off-limits. I swear it.” 

“Do you trust him?” Gaby asked. She took a deep breath. “Do you trust us?” 

“I want to,” Illya replied, “but is difficult.” 

“Let’s practice, shall we?” Solo continued flirting, his voice low and eyes smouldering, stepping into Illya’s space. “If you want anything to stop, just say ‘pancake’.” 

“Why special word?” Illya whispered. He watched Solo getting closer, the distance between them rapidly disappearing. 

“Because sometimes, when things feel really good, you _might_ be tempted to tell someone - or yell at someone, or, god, hopefully _moan_ at someone - ‘don’t stop’.” Solo slid his hand up Illya’s chest to rest on the nape of Illya’s neck. “We want to avoid all possible confusion, while respecting any boundaries we might have. Sound fair, Gaby?” Solo asked. He grinned at the slightly strangled little ‘mm-hmm’ from her. “Excellent.” 

Illya watched Solo until the last possible - _impossible_ \- second. When Solo’s mouth pressed against his own Illya was lost in the sensation of it, aflame with barely requited lust while drowning in the newness of it all. He kissed Solo back but didn’t know what else to do. Was he supposed to hold a man the same way he’d held Gaby? He had a vague idea about how a man and woman should do this sort of thing - he’d seen in movies and read about it, at least - but the stubble against his cheek and restrained strength of the body against his was so different than anything he’d seen or imagined. It was also much, _much_ better than his secret daydreams, if not more terrifying. 

It was Solo’s turn to pull away, clearly confused, and Illya’s shame returned like a freight train. He was off to a bad start and wanted to run until his legs gave out. The fact that Solo didn’t let him go was the only thing keeping him grounded. 

“You’re allowed to touch him, Illya,” Gaby was close and quiet and watchful. “Like you touched me. If you want to. Right, Napoleon?” 

Solo nodded. “Let me guess, you’ve never seen naughty magazines with men in them?” When Illya shook his head, Solo gave a little smile. “We can do this however we want, Peril. However _you_ want. If you want to put your hands here,” Solo took Illya’s hands and guided them around his waist, “you can.” 

Illya cleared his throat, willing his voice to come out normally. He didn’t quite succeed as he asked, “Would you… do you like that?” 

Solo shivered and his entire body changed from cautious to tightly wound. “You’re going to be the end of me, you know that?” 

“Why?” 

Gaby rested her hand on Illya’s arm, touched at his innocent question and determined to beat whatever witty mistake was about to fall out of Solo’s pretty, unthinking mouth. “There are some people who like to talk filthy-” 

“It’s dirty, talk _dirty_-” 

“Shut up, Napoleon.” Gaby glared and understood the flush along Solo’s neck running up to his ears. “Who like to talk _dirty_ during their fun, like flirting, or challenging their lover. I don’t think anyone is surprised that Napoleon, a man who cannot shut up for anything, would be one of those of people.” 

Illya frowned. “But I did not say anything dirty.” 

“Oh, my dear Illya,” Solo said, “with your voice all stern and commanding, asking me if I like that? I think you have hidden talents.” 

“If you are making fun of me-” 

“He isn’t,” Gaby said quickly. “He really isn’t. You know how you can tell?” Illya shook his head. “Look down.” 

Illya looked down. He gulped. Blood thundered away from his brain at lightning speed. “Mm.” 

“I think Napoleon is capable of _great_ sincerity under certain circumstances.” 

“Mm.” 

“I think we should try that again,” Napoleon said, definitely sincerely. “You’re allowed to touch me. I want you to.” 

“What if I do it wrong?” Illya asked. His voice was so small and he closed his eyes, hanging his head. 

Solo caught the warning glare from Gaby and nodded. “Any way at all that you want to touch me will be the right way.” 

Illya opened one eye to look at Gaby before returning his full attention to the tent in Napoleon’s pants. The apron over the top was in the way and Illya tsked. He quickly unlaced the apron ties and threw the fabric to the ground. “I think he is still meaning this, yes?” 

“Yes,” Gaby said with a smile. 

“Good.” Illya started the kiss this time and was surprised to find that he could tell when Solo was smiling. Illya put his hands on Solo’s waist and squeezed gently before running his hands up Solo’s back, exploring how his body was different to Gaby’s but was definitely just as enticing. Solo pulled him closer to press their bodies together and let out a breathy moan when Illya, that cheeky bastard, bit his lip. 

Solo pulled away with a grin. “How did you know to try that?” 

“You use your mouth like weapon. It seemed fitting.” 

“I want to try,” Gaby said. 

“You don’t even know what he did.” 

“I bet you twenty dollars I can figure it out.” 

Solo huffed a small laugh. “What do you say, Illya?” 

“I say you’re about to lose twenty dollars.” 

“If I’m right,” Gaby said, her voice husky, gracefully stepping between the two of them, “it’ll be the best loss you’ve ever made.” She pulled Illya close behind her when he might have moved away. Securing Illya’s arms around her waist, she wrapped her hands behind Solo’s neck and kissed him, gentle at first, lulling him into a false sense of security before unleashing. She pulled his shirt from the waistband of his slacks to run her nails down his chest; Napoleon’s shudder echoed through her and into Illya. With one hand on Gaby’s waist and the other reaching for Illya, Napoleon opened his mouth to Gaby’s warmth. 

She sensed the opportunity and took it. She bit Napoleon’s lip and was rewarded with a moan. Behind her, Illya shyly kissed her neck, his breath hot on her skin, his touch light as if he were ready to run. She clumsily reached up to grip the back of his neck, encouraging him, and pressed her ass into his straining pants. Illya growled but cut himself off. Gaby rolled her ass against him and he didn’t - or couldn’t - stop the low moan she brought out of him. She pulled away from Napoleon’s kiss to arch into Illya, pulling Napoleon with her. She guided Solo’s chin toward Illya, waiting for them to close their eyes and get lost in a very enthusiastic kiss, before rolling her hips and ass against them both. They broke apart with surprised gasps and Gaby grinned. 

“Perfect,” she sighed. “You’re both wearing far too many clothes - and we’re going to need a bigger bed.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! I love these nerds so much <3 big thanks to intricatecakes for helping my bad grammar and also self esteem :') the title of this fic is from a song called ['hallways' by something for kate](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nxCoqC1A6dQ)


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